A conspiracy it seems between Man and God
to neutralize colour perception.
Dull the mind and imprison it
in one great big grey cell.

At the crack of dawn
that sly aluminum clock
sings its merry tune in metallic notes.
The sanctuary of soothing slumber slips away

to a vast, grey outside
where sky and land fold together.
Concrete monsters with orange pock marks rise high,
poke holes in obese cumulus clouds.

The grey pavement stretches like a mirage.
Grey buildings, cars, coats.
Grey skyline against a grey backdrop.
A grey key and a grey office.

Niri Maharaj

To read other poems by Niri, click on the links below:

Poor Little Styks

Springburst